Pastoral I (Dryden): Tityrus and Meliboeus

MELIBOEUS
BEneath the Shade which Beechen Boughs diffuse,
You Tity'rus entertain your Silvan Muse:
Round the wide World in Banishment we rome,
Forc'd from our pleasing Fields and Native Home:
While stretch'd at Ease you sing your happy loves:
And Amarillis fills the shady Groves.

TITYRUS
These blessings, Friend, a Deity bestow'd:
For never can I deem him less than God.
The tender Firstlings of my Woolly breed
Shall on his holy Altar often bleed.
He gave my Kine to graze the Flowry Plain:
And to my Pipe renew'd the Rural Strain.

MELIBOEUS
I envy not your Fortune, but admire,
That while the raging Sword and wastful Fire
Destroy the wretched Neighbourhood around,
No Hostile Arms approach your happy ground.
Far diff'rent is my Fate: my feeble Goats
With pains I drive from their forsaken Cotes.
And this you see I scarcely drag along,
Who yeaning on the Rocks has left her Young;
(The Hope and Promise of my failing Fold:)
My loss by dire Portents the Gods foretold:
For had I not been blind I might have seen
You riven Oak, the fairest of the Green,
And the hoarse Raven, on the blasted Bough,
With frequent Crokes presag'd the coming Blow.
But tell me, Tityrus, what Heav'nly Power
Preserv'd your Fortunes in that fatal Hour?

TITYRUS
Fool that I was, I thought Imperial Rome
Like Mantua, where on Market-days we come,
And thether drive our tender Lambs from home.
So Kids and Whelps their Syres and Dams express:
And so the Great I measur'd by the Less.
But Country Towns, compar'd with her, appear
Like Shrubs, when lofty Cypresses are near.

MELIBOEUS
What great Occasion call'd you hence to Rome?

TITYRUS
Freedom, which came at length, tho' slow to come:
Nor did my Search of Liberty begin,
Till my black Hairs were chang'd upon my Chin.
Nor Amarillis wou'd vouchsafe a look,
Till Galeatea's meaner bonds I broke.
Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely Swain,
I sought not freedom, nor aspir'd to Gain:
Tho' many a Victim from my Folds was bought,
And many a Cheese to Country Markets brought,
Yet all the little that I got, I spent,
And still return'd as empty as I went.

MELIBOEUS
We stood amaz'd to see your Mistress mourn;
Unknowing that she pin'd for your return:
We wonder'd why she kept her Fruit, so long,
For whom so late th' ungather'd Apples hung.
But now the Wonder ceases, since I see
She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee.
For thee the bubling Springs appear'd to mourn,
And whisp'ring Pines made vows for thy return.

TITYRUS
What shou'd I do! while here I was enchain'd,
No glimpse of Godlike Liberty remain'd?
Nor cou'd I hope in any place, but there,
To find a God so present to my Pray'r.
There first the Youth of Heav'nly Birth I view'd;
For whom our Monthly Victims are renew'd.
He heard my Vows, and graciously decreed
My Grounds to be restor'd, my former Flocks to feed.

MELIBOEUS
O Fortunate Old Man! whose Farm remains
For you sufficient, and requites your pains,
Tho' Rushes overspread the Neighb'ring Plains.
Tho' here the Marshy Grounds approach your Fields,
And there the Soyl a stony Harvest yields.
Your teeming Ewes shall no strange Meadows try,
Nor fear a Rott from tainted Company.
Behold yon bord'ring Fence of Sallow Trees
Is fraught with Flow'rs, the Flow'rs are fraught with Bees:
The buisie Bees with a soft murm'ring Strain
Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring Swain.
While from the Neighb'ring Rock, with Rural Songs,
The Pruner's Voice the pleasing Dream prolongs;
Stock-Doves and Turtles tell their Am'rous pain,
And from the lofty Elms of Love complain.

TITYRUS
Th' Inhabitants of Seas and Skies shall change,
And Fish on shoar and Stags in Air shall range,
The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink,
And the blue German shall the Tigris drink:
E're I, forsaking Gratitude and Truth,
Forget the Figure of that Godlike Youth.

MELIBOEUS
But we must beg our Bread in Climes unknown,
Beneath the scorching or the freezing Zone.
And some to far Oaxis shall be sold;
Or try the Lybian Heat, or Scythian Cold.
The rest among the Britans be confin'd;
A Race of Men from all the World dis-join'd.
O must the wretched Exiles ever mourn,
Nor after length of rowl'ing Years return?
Are we condem'd by Fates unjust Decree,
No more our Houses and our Homes to see?
Or shall we mount again the Rural Throne,
And rule the Country Kingdoms, once our own!
Did we for these Barbarians plant and sow,
On these, on these, our happy Fields bestow?
Good Heav'n, what dire Effects from Civil Discord flow!
Now let me graff my Pears, and prune the Vine;
The Fruit is theirs, the Labour only mine.
Farewel my Pastures, my Paternal Stock,
My fruitful Fields, and my more fruitful Flock!
No more, my Goats, shall I behold you climb
The steepy Cliffs, or crop the flow'ry Thyme!
No more, extended in the Grot below,
Shall see you browzing on the Mountain's brow
The prickly Shrubs; and after on the bare,
Lean down the Deep Abyss, and hang in Air.
No more my Sheep shall sip the Morning Dew;
No more my Song shall please the Rural Crue:,
Adieu, my tuneful Pipe! and all the World adieu!

TITYRUS
This Night, at least, with me forget your Care;
Chesnuts and Curds and Cream shall be your fare:
The Carpet-ground shall be with Leaves o'respread;
And Boughs shall weave a Cov'ring for your Head.
For see yon sunny Hill the Shade extends;
And curling Smoke from Cottages ascends.